


with a little help from my friends

by crooked



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crooked/pseuds/crooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis to the rescue when Grantaire has a day that's just too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with a little help from my friends

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by yet another lovely headcanon from [attackofthechewenod](http://attackofthechewenod.tumblr.com/post/60840982000/r-having-a-meltdown-in-front-of-les-amis-because)!

Joly is the first to notice. He's sitting nearest to Grantaire, with Bossuet to his right with an arm slung over his shoulders, and he feels it more than anything. It's a subtle shaking against his left arm, where Grantaire's elbow is pressing into him. He's folded his arms on the table and rested his forehead on top of his forearm, and he's crying. It's silent in the beginning, but it's unmistakable. Joly squeezes Bossuet's leg and flashes him a concerned look before leaning over and laying a hand on Grantaire's back, rubbing a soothing path up and down the notches of his spine.

And that's all it takes, that simple touch, to open the flood gates.

The sobs build from a soft, quiet gasping to the loud, hiccuping sort of cries that make it hard for Grantaire to breathe. Joly lets out a soft cry of _oh, R_ and embraces him as best he can, sort of draping himself over the curve of Grantaire's back. It does nothing to stop the onslaught. Grantaire doesn't lift his head but the sobs grow louder, seeming to come from the deepest, most anguished part of his soul. Bossuet reaches out and grips Grantaire's forearm, bracingly. Joly sits up and looks around for help, and it's already on its way.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac both come to the table armed with a tea tray and a plate of pastries, respectively. Jehan drops into the vacant chair beside Grantaire and begins to fix his tea the way he knows he takes it. He coaxes him to sit up, and when Grantaire does Jehan immediately wipes the tears from his splotchy face. They don't stop falling quite yet, but the sobbing has quieted. Grantaire looks embarrassed as Jehan gently pushes the cup of tea into his hands, his head ducked so that his eyes are shadowed by a mass of dark curls.

Jehan just leans over and kisses his temple. "We all have days like this, R," he says, his tone and his touch delicate.

Courfeyrac offers him a madeleine, which Grantaire takes and bites into simply because it's a reflex to do so. Courfeyrac rests his chin on top of Jehan's head, smiling softly at Grantaire. "We're just glad you were here with all of us instead of off alone somewhere," he says. The sniffling and shuddering intakes of breath that follow a hard cry have just begun, and Grantaire wants to smile for Courfeyrac but all he can do is nod stiffly. He feels like a child, ridiculously small and unable to take care of himself, with his friends doting on him because they're worried he'll break again.

Feuilly produces a small, beautifully-painted fan from somewhere and passes it across the table to Grantaire. "A good cry can get a little hot," he says with a crooked half-smile. Grantaire closes his fingers around the fan with a grateful look to Feuilly.

Bahorel comes up behind Grantaire suddenly, the strong arm wrapping loosely around his neck catching him off guard for a moment. He feels the roughness of his stubble pressing against his cheek as Bahorel says, "Whatever it is, kick its ass, R." Everyone else chuckles at that as Bahorel releases Grantaire from his hold, tousling a hand through his curls as a parting sign of affection.

Everyone but R, though he does finally manage a teary ghost of a smile. It's gone in a matter of seconds. As sweet as his friends are being and as much as he can't even begin to put into words how much he appreciates them, he still feels like he could burst into tears at any moment. But he sits there and lets them shower him with affection, though he really doesn't have a choice. Jehan's fingers are brushing through his hair; Joly and Bossuet each have a hand on him, giving comforting pats or squeezes; Combeferre is hovering nearby in case his tea needs a refill; Courfeyrac and Bahorel have teamed up to relay an amusing anecdote from the other day; Feuilly has taken up the task of seeing to it that he gets a macaron in each hand.

And Enjolras hasn't moved.

He's been watching the entire thing, from the moment he first heard Joly's soft exclamation of concern. It's a marvelous sight to behold, that of his friends all banding together to make Grantaire's troubles fade. Nobody has even asked him what's wrong. They all seem to know there doesn't need to be a specific cause for this breakdown - that, or they all know something Enjolras isn't yet privy to. Either way, they're al just instantly there for him, surrounding Grantaire with love.

He wants to join in. Enjolras is just so bad at it. It doesn't come easy to him, he never knows what words to say or when not to say anything at all. But he wants to offer Grantaire some comfort, no matter how small, just to show him that he isn't uncaring because that's how it must look.

So he walks over, and Jehan must see something in Enjolras' face because he vacates the chair next to R. Enjolras slips into it and Grantaire looks a bit surprised at his sudden appearance. Enjolras doesn't do anything for a few seconds, a little frown creasing his brow as he struggles to come up with the appropriate thing to say. He can't, though, so he abandons that idea and goes with Plan B. Which is probably more disastrous than Plan A but it's all he has to work with.

Enjolras lifts his arm and the motion is stiff and awkward as he places it around Grantaire's shoulders. For a second, Grantaire's eyes widen the tiniest bit and Enjolras panics and thinks about pulling his arm back. But then he feels Grantaire's body slacken and he's leaning into Enjolras, a soft rush of breath leaving his lungs as his head settles snugly against his shoulder. Enjolras is still tense himself, not sure what to do with this. But it only takes a few seconds of Grantaire's warmth against his side to relax him, and Enjolras lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

Grantaire's eyes close almost immediately, the feeling of Enjolras' arm around him providing a comfort he's never experienced. He moves closer to him, wanting to drown in him, in his touch and, god, he can smell the soap Enjolras bathed with that morning. It's intoxicating and soothing, all of it, _him_. And Grantaire doesn't want to open his eyes or move in case he breaks the spell.

Neither of them feel the eyes trained on them, so lost in their own world they've become. For Enjolras and Grantaire, nothing else exists in that moment - it's just them and their soft breathing (Grantaire's still faintly uneven) and the press of their bodies. But Courfeyrac is the one who makes the initial move. He tugs at Combeferre's sleeve, jerking his head in the direction of the backroom. Everyone else catches on fairly quickly, and they all slowly and quietly take their leave.

If Enjolras and Grantaire notice, they show no sign of it. If they hear the faint murmurs of conversation from the other room about them and what it is everyone's just witnessed, they show no sign of that either. They stay entwined as they are, the only change occurring when Enjolras leans his cheek against the crown of Grantaire's head. They don't speak any words; they don't need to. And when asked later, neither can say just how long it is they stay that way.

But they both know that's the precise moment something — something intangible and unnamed but _something_ — shifts between them.


End file.
